


Take These Broken Wings (And Learn to Fly)

by arixtides



Series: spn prompt fills [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Winged Dean, Wingfic, dean has wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1193364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arixtides/pseuds/arixtides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a few things Dean has gotten used to. Hours of nursing wounds, evil bitches, the infinite amount of pain. This is taking it to a new level, though.<br/>Because how the fuck did he suddenly sprout wings, and why does it hurts so fucking bad?<br/>Thank god Cas is there to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take These Broken Wings (And Learn to Fly)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lamppu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamppu/gifts).



> Season 4 AU  
> A/N:  
> Dedicated to Lamppu! You’re awesome!  
> So, obviously this is a Season 4!AU, set at a point where there’s still some of Cas’ Grace left inside of Dean. The title is an obvious reference to the Beatles’ Blackbird.  
> [Prompt: http://destielficprompts.tumblr.com/post/63435470185/dean-grows-wings-cas-helps ]  
> (And I really do hope that you can enjoy this, however crappy it may be.)  
> WARNINGS: LANGUAGE, BLOOD, the fun stuff.  
> Like/Reblog on [ tumblr ](http://arixtides.tumblr.com/post/76870869662/take-these-broken-wings-and-learn-to-fly)? 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Supernatural does not belong to me, and I am not making any money from this at all.

At first, Dean barely felt it at all.

 

Sure, there was a soft pounding – like a second heart beat – between his shoulder blades. And yes, it was _weird_. But that stupid demon had thrown him against a wall repeatedly until it fucking _broke_ before Sam could finally come to the rescue.

(That whole hunt was utter horseshit, seriously.

  
First they had spent a hundred hours researching – not metaphorically, people – in the probably crappiest motel Dean ever had the questionable pleasure to look at. And he had seen so _many_ crappy motels in his life that it was quite the achievement.

 

After this they had thought, _thank fuck; hardest part over_ , and of course that was a mistake.

There was clearly a line between confident and really fucking arrogant, and sometimes when it came to hunting, Dean liked to practice line dancing on that thing, so yeah – and he was so not good at line dancing.  Reckless, here you go.

Although Dean still wasn’t about to take all that blame since Sam had seemed pretty down for it, too.

 

Then, as they finally had found that fucking demon bitch, she of course wasn’t alone.

Because why, pray tell, would life ever be easy on the Winchesters, right?

 

So as all of her little helpers ganged up on Sam, Dean – admittedly unprofessional – couldn’t help but glance his brother’s way. That was when the demon grabbed him by the throat and began punching the wall with Dean’s body so hard that he could actually _hear_ his left shoulder blade crack into tiny pieces. Wasn’t so great.

 

When Sam _finally_ fucking managed to help him out, Dean was close to passing out – which wasn’t so awesome, either. But you probably would have guessed that.

 

And yes, the amount of “fuck” and its’ variations in this story is insanely high. Sadly not in the sense that Dean would have preferred.

On their way back, his back still fucking hurt, sitting was an ordeal and he had to let Sam drive. _That_ probably was the hardest part of it all.)

 

But whatever. Bitch was dead now and for the next few days Dean simply had to lay low. Was okay, really, to sleep (as best as possible with gruesome flashbacks of blood and gore and _screams_ , so many desperate pleas screamed at him, begging, breaking) and catch up on Dr Sexy MD, and just, y’know, relax.

Only that his back hurt so much, _so freaking much_ , and he sure as fuck couldn’t tell Sam without breaking hell loose. Sam had been eerily apprehensive on Dean’s behalf ever since they had reunited –   Dean definitely wasn’t going to give him even more reason for that.

 

Instead, Dean decided to play it down a bit, just mentioning that his left shoulder was probably gonna take a few weeks. (Which was true. He was still pretty sure that his shoulder blade consisted of multiple broken parts and it didn’t necessarily feel like it was getting better.)

 

He stuck with that (repeating over and over that it was indeed the only thing that hurt) despite the fact there was still a faint throbbing between his shoulder blades, constant reminder that _something_ just wasn’t right.

Dean figured that it simply might have been caused by the aching shoulder and played it down even in his own mind.

 

It wasn’t before Castiel popped up that Dean truly began to be creeped out by this formerly dull sensation that grew stronger with every day passing.

Because the angel appeared in all his glory – looking like a holy tax accountant backslash banker, mind you – and looked at Dean questioningly before he finally commanded, “Tell me, Dean, why does Sam’s worry echo in every prayer and yet you yourself never strive for contact?”

 

Yeah, Dean thought, good question. Mostly, really, he just didn’t want to make a fuss about one injury and also, “I told you before. Don’t necessarily believe that prayers help with anything these days.”

 

“Or maybe you just didn’t think it important to ask me for help? The last time your brother was injured you were quite swift to demand my presence.”

Okay, yes, there was no denying that that was true, also.

 

So, as universal answer for that one, Dean shrugged uncommittingly, “Demon gave us some crap and I got hurt. That’s what happens to hunters when they slip up during the job.”

 

The angel nodded, once again not necessarily worried or edgy; then he requested, “Show me your injury, just so that I can ease Sam’s worry and your pain.”

 

With a nod, Dean got up from the motel’s couch (and it had been such a comfortable position, too, so Dean already missed sitting), grunted a little as the muscles of his left shoulder inevitably contracted, making him shut his eyes in a momentum of pain.

His back to Cas, he shrugged his left shoulder once to indicate that this was the one that hurt. There wasn’t much Cas had to do besides placing two fingers on the cracked shoulder blade (for a moment Dean was just incredibly glad that he had only worn sweatpants to begin with ever since they came back from that hunt; he didn’t even want to imagine both the awkwardness and the pain of having his shirt stripped off by Cas), and then clicking his tongue in dissatisfaction.

 

“You should be more careful with your body, Dean,” He finally spoke, removing his hand delicately. “I won’t always be around to heal you.”

 

“Yeah, I know, I know. I can promise that it definitely wasn’t intentional or anything.” Came Dean’s curt answer as he began massaging the now healed shoulder with his right hand. Better, definitely. But there was still the throbbing, stronger now, more prominent since his body had no other pain to focus on. Dean frowned, but only for a mere second. Maybe that was just the effect of Cas’ mojo.

 

“Are you alright, now?” Cas then asked him, and Dean nodded in reply. “Good. I will not be able to answer any requests for the next days, so try not to attract too much trouble.”

 

“Important angel business?” Dean snorted, and the angel inclined his head with the barest hint of a smile. Before Dean could even utter _Thanks, Cas_ , he was alone in the room, no angel in sight.

 

Absentmindedly, Dean’s hand placed itself on his neck, inching lower and lower, trying to get a hold of that throbbing pain – he even spread his fingers for better access. Only when he tried to scratch the itch did he come to his senses; there was a sharp sting that made Dean gasp.

Okay, no touching the mystery spot between his shoulder blades, he decided with a silent groan, before making his way towards the bed. Throbbing aside, he felt definitely all better.

 

But he was still seriously tired, and he could totally tolerate Sam’s bitching about him sleeping all day if that just meant one moment of peace and rest – so Dean plopped stomach first down on the bed, closing his eyes. It took a few minutes, but eventually he fell into an uneasy (but undoubtedly close to comatose) sleep.

 

Only when he woke up, it began being in– _fucking_ –tolerable.

 

Maybe it would not have been as bad had he slept on his stomach like he originally had had intended to. Instead, however, he had rolled onto his back unconsciously in his sleep. Now, his body was getting revenge for that one; waking up to a burning sting was definitely now on his top twenty of things he could have lived very well without ever having them happen to him.

 

He must have vocalised his dissatisfaction at some point, he realised, as Sam suddenly stood very concerned at his bed.

 

“Sammy, god damn, don’t just suddenly appear, or I’ll have a heart attack.” Dean grunted, bewildered. A shock wasn’t what he needed on top of the stinging, not unlike a fresh branding.

 

“Dean, I’ve been standing here for the past five minutes, listening to you wheezing and gasping. I tried talking to you, but you were pretty out of it…” Finally, he trailed off, looked at Dean in concern and added, “Are you sure that it’s _nothing_? Cause I have a feeling that you were lying all along.”

 

“It wasn’t this bad at first, I swear. Cas has even healed it, so I really have no clue were that’s coming from.” He swiftly brushed Sam’s accusatory stance off, instead began pressing his right thumb into the palm of his left hand, seeking distraction from his ever hurting back.

 

“Mh… What if Castiel –“

 

“He wouldn’t hurt me on purpose,” Dean said, feigning nonchalance even though he was suitably upset by the mere thought of that, no matter how illogical he deemed it. “Besides, it’s been throbbing for a few days now. I thought it had to do with the broken shoulder blade.”

 

“Well, apparently not if Castiel has actually healed it and yet the throbbing is still there.” Sam pointed out the obvious, Dean knew, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he wanted to hear it.

 

“It’s actually more like stinging, right now.” Dean said, flinching as his thumb nail finally drew blood. With a sigh, he sucked off what little blood emerged due to the wound, then he used his hands as a help to turn himself over so that he was resting on his stomach.

That was infinitely better, he decided; his back still stung, but at least there was no painful pressure to enhance the whole thing.

 

“Now is not the time for jokes, Dean.” Sam pressed, clearly annoyed by his attitude. There was still enough concern on his face, though, to assure Dean that he hadn’t really overstepped any boundaries.

 

“Wasn’t really a joke, though,” He exhaled slowly, trying to figure out what exactly was going on – but like before nothing, at all, came to his mind. “Say, what does my back look like? I feel like it should be fiery red by now, at last.”

 

Sam shook his head in reply, regarding Dean’s back expertly – like someone who had seen many wounds and knew what was bad, and what not so much. In a way, Dean thought, they _were_ experts at that by now. “Not at all. Maybe a little purple-ish, which is probably due to the bricks of that wall. It doesn’t look more irritated than that, though.”

 

 _That_ was weird, without a doubt. Because his skin should look as irritated as he felt; it was itchy all over, in a way that also let him know that should he actually attempt to scratch, he’d probably be reduced to a sobbing mess because it would hurt like nobody’s business.

 

 

That was what he intended to tell Sam, truly, but what came out instead was an indifferent, “Then it can’t really be that bad. I’ll just wait for Cas to finish his important angel business and then I can ask him to take a look at it.”

 

“Why not call him now?” Sam inquired, not quite satisfied with Dean’s answer.

 

“Told you, important angel business. He said he’d be a few day. I pray for him to get his celestial ass down here in three days, okay? Sammy, it’s alright. Three days are not a lot.” Dean’s reply grew more soothing with each word as he saw Sam looking more concerned by the second. He didn’t so much like to see Sam troubled, especially not because of him.

 

“If you’re sure…?” Dean nodded as well as he could with his face sideways on a pillow, so Sam continued, “Alright, then. You get three days before I officially have rights to freak out about your condition. Anything you need right now?”

 

 

“Well, food would be fab,” He said after his stomach pointedly informed both of them audibly just how long Dean had neglected to eat. “And maybe pain killers? I took the last ones a few hours ago.”

 

 

“Sure,” Sam nodded, alright half out of the door, eager to get some fresh air to clear his head. “Call me if something else comes to mind.”

 

 

“’Kay.” He muttered in reply, hearing the door shut with a faint click.

 

 

(Barely one minute after that, Dean had called Sam to say, “Don’t forget my pie.”

 

Of course he forgot the damn pie anyways, and _no_ , Dean wasn’t pouting for _hours_ after that, because he was an actual adult who didn’t need pie to be truly happy, _really_.)

 

 

But, piescapade aside, there wasn’t much going on after that initial painful awakening. Sam had voiced a few more concerns but had then said that maybe it really was simple back pain and that it wouldn’t deteriorate; that it might not turn into anything more than that ache.

 

At least, that was a correct assumption for the next day: With a book in hand (whoever insisted that Dean wasn’t a book guy was so wrong; just because he was quite particular when it came to preference didn’t mean that he right out disliked reading as a whole), he lazed the whole day, not moving a centimetre from his spot on the bed. It didn’t exactly get better – but it also didn’t get worse, which was at something, at least.

 

Even Sam relaxed enough to go for some good natured teasing like “You should shower, Dean, you begin to smell. Oh, wait, you _always_ do.” or even a whole light-hearted discussion of Dean’s choice of book that went a little like this: “Dean, are you actually _reading_ a book? I didn’t know you could read at all!” – “Well, I have lots of layers, Sammy. Like an onion.” – “My god, that was beautiful. You should be author yourself.” – “I know, right? It would be lots of fun. I’d kill off everybody’s favourite characters unexpectedly.” – “… That doesn’t sound like I’d like your books. What are you reading?” –

“Vonnegut.” – “You are so fucking predictable it sometimes hurts.” – “Stop complaining, bitch. You always want me to read. And now shush, I’m trying to read.”)

 

 

But this was the Winchester family, and when did they ever have their peace with anything? The second day after, Dean was out of luck in the ‘not worsening’ department.

 

Once again, he was being awoken rather harshly, this time more so than before; with a startled jolt – a response to the way his skin seemed to span uncomfortably between his shoulder blades, as if there wasn’t even skin to contain all of his flesh – Dean rolled onto his back so that he could sit up, do something about his revolting skin. In his sleepy state he had completely forgotten that he really, really shouldn’t lie on his back and –

 

 

“Ah!” He didn’t exactly scream, but it was a close call, really. It was more like a weak yelp, waking both brothers rather effectively.

 

 

“Dean?” Sam stumbled out of bed, quickly finding his way to Dean’s side. “What’s wrong?”

 

 

With a calming tone (which was betrayed by both his breathlessness and his pain stricken eyes), he mumbled, “Sorry, just felt really weird for a sec. Go back to sleep, Sammy.”

 

 

As reassuring as he tried to be, it quite obviously wasn’t working, at all.

 

 

“Yeah, right, _weird_ my ass. You don’t scream in pain because something’s just weird, Dean.”

 

 

“I wasn’t _screaming_ , exactly. More like, yelping in a real manly way.” Dean offered instead, trying to smile despite the situation. He didn’t quite succeed.

 

 

“… Right. No, that’s it, Dean. I’m going to call Castiel now, he may be the only one able to help,” As his brother protested vocally, Sam shook his head, insisting. “No, Dean. This is some serious stuff. Go lay down on your stomach again, try to keep your mind off of the pain. I’ll be back in a few.”

 

 

And as Sam exited to probably pray to Cas, Dean just hoped that Cas wouldn’t neglect any of his duties for Dean because really – he wasn’t _that_ important.

 

 

Later, Cas still was nowhere to be seen, and Dean thought that it was a good thing Cas didn’t seem to deem Sam’s prayers quite as important as Dean’s. Most of all, Dean wanted to make a point that a) he wasn’t completely relying on Cas’ help with everything and b) that he also didn’t abuse Cas’ friendship and help.

 

Because he didn’t want to be _that guy_ in Cas’ books, really.

 

 

Sam tried to talk Dean into calling for Cas ( _“He always does come when you call. Playing favourites, I suppose.”_ ), but Dean kept refusing, claiming that the ‘weird’ feeling from this morning hadn’t occurred again and really, he was okay and all, it actually felt less painful. (It didn’t.)

 

 

Dean said that he wouldn’t call for Cas under any circumstances and he tried to stick to those words, stubborn as ever.

 

Keeping his word also wasn’t as difficult as one would probably assume. Mainly because he did his best to not move a single muscle, simply just laying on the bed and listening to some audio book that Sam had put on for him (and _god_ that story sucked so bad – Sam’s fascination with dark backslash mythological fantasy stuff he’d never understand; Dean was more of a science-fiction guy as far as the _totally unrealistic_ genres were concerned).

 

 

Then, however, there it was again, pressure against his already sensate skin – but not from the outside; instead, something from inside his body seemed to press outside, striving to break through his skin with vigour.

                       

 

For a moment, Dean was more than ready to call out for Sammy like the scared little boy he felt like right now. It literally felt like his skin would _burst_ and if that wasn’t an uncomfortable thought then Dean really didn’t know. But right before the ‘s’ could properly form, he forced his mouth shut because he remembered how he had asked Sam to get new pain killers for him, both to get Sam’s doting backside off of his chest for a second and to give Sam the chance to be alone with his thoughts.

 

In retrospective, his time when sending Sam away wasn’t so great.

 

 

It was quite a shock, really, when his next immediate instinct was to substitute Sam’s name was ‘Cas’. Because wasn’t he determined mere hours ago to just not ask Cas for help?

 

 

He was about to dismiss the thought of calling Cas as swiftly as it had come when he definitely felt _something_ moving right under his skin – not just pushing and shoving relentlessly but also tracing circles along both of his shoulder blade areas, as if each trying to find the spot where his skin was thinnest, easiest to break through.

 

 

The moment he realised that _that_ was exactly what was going on, Dean’s fright finally took over, and he called out a heartfelt and a thoroughly scared, “Cas, please, I know you’re busy but I _need_ you…”

 

 

And yes, he was begging and pleading here – also, absolutely scared shitless – but he couldn’t bring himself to care right then, no matter how embarrassed he would probably be later on concerning all of this. _If_ he would be; what if this would cause his death?

 

A new wave of panic hit him; he couldn’t die now, he still had so much do to, so much to say. Not just to Sam and Cas, but them most of all.

 

 

Half-expecting Cas to not show up after such a display of weakness and helplessness, Dean did a double-take when he heard rustling and a mildly worried, “Dean?”

 

 

“Cas,” He breathed, all he could manage while his back felt like it would break any second, ripping open and leaving a bloody mess. “You came.”

 

 

“You called,” Cas answered as if I was the most obvious thing in the world to just come once Dean called. It made Dean smile despite everything else going on. Having friends wasn’t half bad with Cas on the other end. “Of more import would be just why you did. What is wrong?”

 

 

Dean groaned in pain, his attention fully on his back again now that Cas had mentioned it. “My back might be killing me right this moment. And I mean literally.”

 

 

“Still?” The angel inquired, eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Even though I healed you already?”

 

 

“Uhm, yeah. I don’t know exactly _why_ either. Didn’t want to disrupt whatever you were doing, too, so I tried not to call for you but, really, I can’t deal with this, it’s unlike everything I’ve ever endured.” And Dean’s been to effing _Hell_ so that’s saying something, alright.

 

 

“Your shoulder blade cannot still be broken, and your spine was perfectly fine, too, I checked.” Cas argued, apparently more with his own mind than Dean’s, his expression worrisome. Never _ever_ a good sign, that much was certain.

 

 

“I know, man. It’s not the shoulder blades themselves – actually, no, they kinda are but not really – this is difficult to explain…” Dean trailed off sheepishly, but Cas’ expression was open and patient, so Dean went on anyway. “It feels like my shoulder blades move on their own accord? Like, they are growing a little each day, and they feel their way around my back and, I know this sounds real creepy and unbelievable and stupid, but it feels like they want to find a way to break through my skin.”

 

 

Cas did not utter a single word, not even a plain ‘ah’, or ‘oh’ or ‘uh’, whichever would have suited this situation the most. In fact, he was stock still, eyes on Dean but mind so so far away.

 

 

Dean, no necessarily calmed down by Cas’ eerie silence (quite the opposite, really), began to ramble on and on, “Which probably sounds nuts, but seriously, they are like me up, pushing against skin and stuff. Feels weirder day by day, and I’ve been on edge for hours now. And your silence is so not helping, Cas, could you just tell me how bad it is? Cas, I swear, if you don’t fucking say something now, I – Argh.”

 

 

A strangled groan escaped Dean’s mouth, sharp pain seemingly setting his body aflame. _Not good_ , he thought, moaning in pain once again.

 

That finally snapped Cas into action, though, who – judging by his expression – agreed on the ‘not good’ part, “Your back, Dean, turn your back to me.”

 

As Dean simply glared at him in reply, Cas moved to have a look rather than making Dean move. (Even if Dean had wanted to move, he highly doubted that he would have been able to, honestly.)

 

 

 

And _Christ_ , this time around it felt like whatever it was that had grown on his shoulder blades (because his shoulder blades sure as hell weren’t that pointy before) actually aimed to break through by not delicately red skin. _Not good_ , his blain supplied again, ever so helpful. Upon hearing Cas gasp sharply, his brain corrected itself: _Very not good._

 

 

“Cas?” Dean breathed, a little desperate for any kind of answer Cas could give. “Talk. To. Me.”

 

(Dean did not pause like that to accentuate anything or make a point; he did so because the pained gasps made him pause ever so often.)

 

 

“You said a demon did this to you?” Instead of answering vocally, Dean plainly nodded. He could basically _hear_ Cas’ frown, even though he could not see his friend’s face. “Now then, let me correct you; it most certainly was no demon.”

 

 

Which was just about peachy, really, but it didn’t help at all. And also, “But Sam ( _huff)_ killed ( _gasp)_ the demon’s ( _pant_ ) helpers with ( _groan_ ) his psychic ( _whimper_ ) powers.”

 

 

“Shush, Dean, and listen closely,” Cas instructed – and upon hearing Cas’ urgent tone, Dean gladly did shut his mouth. “It _might_ have been demons – though I am barely a judge when it comes to Sam’s powers, and truthfully, I cannot be sure if it really is _only_ demons that Sam could kill – but whatever has cursed you, it definitely was no demon.”

 

 

He was about to open his mouth to comment on the _cursed_ thing, but both Cas and a sharp sting made him shut up immediately.

 

 

“What exactly is going on, well, I can enlighten you in that regard. But before, I need you to think really thoroughly. Did your brother and you upset any higher powers, maybe angels, in the last few weeks?” Cas tenderly pressed his hand to Dean’s neck.

 

 

Dean pondered that, tried to remember despite the cloudy haze that had formed in his head and tried to prevent a proper string of thoughts. Then, his eyes widened in realisation and he mumbled, “Well, there was this guy, the Trickster. Loki, he said was his name. Apparently a Nordic God? Sam tried looking into it, but every source just magically disappeared, and so we figured he wants to be left alone and would leave us alone in turn. Obviously we miscalculated there. I may have called him names, maybe.”

 

Even though he had been able to get through that without major wheezing and gasping, as soon as Cas’ hand broke the contact, pain flared hot and angry again, making him choke violently.

 

 

“Interesting…” Cas muttered under his breath. “My touch seems to calm your body, which is weird. Usually, when an angel’s curse falls upon you, any kind of contact would make you slightly more upset, actually.”

 

 

“Angel’s curse…” Dean mumbled, choosing to ignore the other words that had left Cas’ mouth. He was quite certain that he really didn’t want to go too deep into that. Knowing angels, it would have to do with faith and bond and he so didn’t want to think about what Cas would guess due to that.

 

 

“Yes. The Trickster must be an angel. This kind of magic is too familiar to me to be anything but. Good news is, I am certain that this curse won’t last much longer. However, before it vanishes it’ll get so much worse,” Then, whispered in an uncomprehensive tone and low pitch. “Why would someone force this upon a mere human?”

 

 

Positively panicked by now, Dean craned his neck and stared at Cas, demanding a clear _what? What will happen to me now?_ And Cas did answer, albeit reluctantly. “Someone used ancient angel magic on you; this particular spell will make your body sprout wings. Angel used it on their own vessels once upon a time, when they still wanted humanity to know who they were. It is in itself a useless spell, as we are able to use our ability – including not only but also wings – without manifesting them.”

 

 

“Only prestige?” Dean pressed out, wondering why the fuck the would do that to their vessels. It really, _really_  hurt.

 

 

“Yes,” Cas confirmed, firm grip guiding Dean to lay down in his stomach, fingers soothingly gliding along Dean’s spine. “We have stopped using it not just because of its’ uselessness but also because we did lose high numbers of perfectly fine vessels. If not healed correctly and thoroughly, the vessels would die.”

 

 

“Someone’s trying to kill me, then.” Dean bit out between two particularly desperate whines.

 

 

“I don’t think so. Someone wants to teach you a lesson. I can feel the sigils carved into you bones. They vanish with time. A day or two after sprouting the wings, they will be gone. And until then, you have me to take care of you. That someone knew I would come to your rescue.”

 

 

“Someone wants me to suffer? Great.” He still didn’t see why _this_ was necessary, though. He wondered, for a second, where the hell Sam was – could it seriously take that long to get pain killers? Then he remembered that Sam was practically forced to drive out to the next big town and yeah, he would be at least another two hours or so. Awesome. Just peachy.

 

 

“Dean, I –“ Whatever he was about to say, Cas cut himself off as Dean suddenly _screamed_ in agony and distress.

 

 

This time, whatever-it-was had finally picked the spot it wanted to pierce through, and it wasn’t going to wait any longer, it seemed.

 

“Cas,” Dean whimpered, eyes prickling hot and wet and he had never been _this_ terrified because this wasn’t Hell, wasn’t particularly illusion, there was no comfort in any of this.

 

 

“I’m here, Dean,” He muttered, concern as obvious as it could be. “Trust me, Dean, you will survive.”

 

 

Much more, Dean didn’t hear. His senses seemed to focus solely on the pain; he could not see, could not hear, could not smell. But he clearly felt the wet, hot blood trickling down his back, pooling at his sides, so so much blood that he wondered briefly if there was still any blood in him, period. His skin, ripped and battered hanging down his sides, also, added to the sensation of disgust that he felt, thinking, _this must look like a bloody mess_. He was pretty certain that he was being particularly vocal, really, because just because he couldn’t actively control his body didn’t make him doubt that it would react as well without his instruction.

 

 

Last thing he felt was crippling pain ripping apart some of his shoulder muscles before he finally, thankfully, passed out, still bleeding, and bleeding, and bleeding.

 

(Cas must have been so swift when cleaning it all up; no pools of blood, no stray pieces of skin anywhere – even though he let Dean know that he’d been unconscious for barely half an hour, his body’s exhaustion not enough to fight a will like Dean’s for long.)

 

 

“And now? I wait a few days and then I have to see how to get some skin and muscle again?” Because he couldn’t quite imagine that it would just grow back easily.

 

 

“I can heal you once the other’s sigils wear off. They are by far stronger than I am, so I cannot meddle yet.” Cas replied, sitting cross-legged on Dean’s lower back, hands cleaning the still tender skin with a wet towel.

 

 

“Sounds easier than what I am used to.” Dean replied, barely flinching as the cold water cooled the still heated, still somewhat sore skin.

 

 

“Whoever did this didn’t want to kill you. They just wanted to make an impression. Probably make sure you remember their superiority,” The other supplied, putting the towel aside. Then, getting up, he ordered. “Sit up.”

 

 

Which Dean did without a question, letting his feet dangle from the bed as Cas sat behind him, resumed cleaning him up – this time grooming his feathers, fascinated, “It has been a while since I last saw those. Yours look amazing, Dean. They reflect your soul wonderfully.”

 

 

“Yeah, pitch black and beaten bloody, just like my soul.” Dean spat, though still leaning into the touch unconsciously.

 

 

“I was about to say, shining vibrantly and proudly despite all that has tainted it.” Replied his friend, soft smile on his lips as he threaded his fingers carefully through the feathers, trying to sort the bloody dried mess they were currently.

 

 

“Mh,” He grumbled, then dropped the topic in favour of another. “What about that thing you mentioned earlier? Your touch being soothing though it shouldn’t have been.”

 

 

“Well,” Cas said, hesitating a little before carrying on. “As they realised how dangerous the spell was for the vessels, the archangel Gabriel – his responsibility used to be being the messenger of God, and as a consequence he had to sprout plenty of wings as unmistakable proof that he indeed was godsend – rewrote the spell a little, changing the sigils so that in emergencies someone would be able to save the vessel while the Angel inside could concentrate fully on chanting the spell.”

 

 

“Ah. So that’s why I’m still alive. They used that sigil that allowed someone else to save my ass in case of emergency?”

 

 

“Not just any someone,” Cas mumbled, and as Dean craned his neck to look at Cas questioningly, he saw that Cas was indeed as red as a tomato. “Um, it only works with your angelic mate. I’m not so sure what that says about us, since you do not have any Grace that my Grace could have connected to, but…”

 

 

The Angel trailed off, socially awkward as ever. Dean ‘oh’-ed (he had a pretty good idea what that meant, exactly) and went to say something reassuring, fond smile in place already, but he decided against it. Instead, he just inched close and closer, mouth almost touching Cas’, the other’s eyes wide and hopeful as Dean began to close that last gap –

 

 

Suddenly, the door banged open, Sam’s voice panicked, “Dean? Are you alright? The manager of the motel said that you were screaming and –“

 

 

Then, Sam took the scene in (in a rush of fright – Dean – and protectiveness – Cas –, Dean had ended up on Cas’ lap, Dean’s face pressed against Cas’ neck), and just said, “What.”

 

 

Dean was about to get all defensive ( _It’s my fucking thing who I’m cuddling up to, bitch_ ), when he figure that Sam was probably referring to the huge wings that were currently squished between Dean’s back and Cas’ chest.

 

 

“Oh, yeah. You missed out, dude.” Sam nodded as if to say, _yeah, I see that_. “You might wanna sit down. You’re in for one long ass story, bro.”

 


End file.
